


The Beating Heart in the Background

by fleurdelisandbees



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Infant Death, John Watson - Freeform, John has a much-needed breakdown, John is feeling quite a bit of angst, Light Case Fic, M/M, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Trigger Warnings, mary morstan - Freeform, more to be added - Freeform, post series three
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 10:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7974013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurdelisandbees/pseuds/fleurdelisandbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their most recent case takes a hard toll on John's emotions, which he has not fully confronted since TAB. It finally catches up with him. That, and the faintest awareness that he might be horribly in love with his best friend.</p>
<p>STRONG TRIGGER WARNING: INFANT AND CHILD DEATH. PLEASE READ CAREFULLY OR DO NOT READ AT ALL IF THESE ARE TRIGGERS FOR YOU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beating Heart in the Background

"I'm a doctor, I think I can recognize when I'm in shock, thank-you-very-much." John was pushing the ambulance attendants away with one impatient hand, his tone flat and biting. He managed to slide off the ledge of the vehicle, through the doors, landing a bit unsteadily on his feet. He kept one warning hand held up toward the concerned attendants, not bothering to make eye contact with either of them.

Sherlock, who had turned from Lestrade in time to catch this full exchange, stepped a bit closer to John. His presence was as calm as ever as he edged fluidly toward his friend. "John," he murmured. "Loathe as I am to agree, perhaps you should let them--"

"Sherlock," John said sharply, his eyes meeting the other man's. He shook his head once, briskly. "Don't be a hypocrite." And with that, he stalked away--but not without Sherlock noting the ghost of a limp haunting his gait.

Sherlock stood rooted in the darkness like a tall, strange night flower with a moonlit face, watching his friend go. He swallowed quietly, feeling an uncomfortable wisp of something--over-protectiveness?--curl through him, urging him to pursue. Having been informed by John on more than one occasion that when it came to impulses he should gauge the opposite of what he wanted as the human norm, he stayed put. These altruistic feelings were new to him and he didn't trust himself to follow through. He wasn't certain what would result if he did: what social faux-pas he might commit. He was a man who entirely understood why animals sometimes ate their young...he doubted that anything approximating a maternal instinct (for lack of a better scientific identification for this feeling) suited him.

Lestrade was fussing with his notepad and ineptly pretending to mind his own business when Sherlock turned back to him. The consulting detective pursed his lips, then gave in to exasperation, gesturing in the direction John had gone. "Did you _see_ that?"

Lestrade looked up, brows rising in surprise. "''Scuse--"

"A doctor, for God's sake," Sherlock scoffed, not speaking directly to anyone anymore, but looking around and yanking his gloves off crossly. "Exactly the _point._ He should _know_. Why must people insist on being so horribly uninformed about themselves?" This last bit was once again directed at Lestrade, as though he might be an expert on this matter.

Lestrade stared back for a moment before cracking a smile and then attempting to hide it behind one sober fist. Laughing at this crime scene was most definitely _not_ okay. Not that it ever was, but, well.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Sorry. I'm sorry. It's just...you know, normally it's you who legs it, and him standing here muttering like that."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and half-turned, looking for something new to focus on. He found that he couldn't, which only made him angrier. Without a word he stalked off (gracefully, as only Sherlock could) in the general direction of Baker street.

"Hey, we still have to question you two!" Lestrade yelled. There was some hesitation, then a slightly disgusted and not entirely hopeful continuation: "I'll see you at the Yard tomorrow!"

***

Mrs. Hudson seemed to be waiting for Sherlock. She was like a shark scenting a drop of blood in the water. Albeit, a shark who made cakes and brought them so much tea they could probably get by without purchasing any for the duration of their lives at 221B. "Sherlock, is everything all right? I went to offer John some nibbles but he wouldn't open the door and--"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said with hardly a pause as he bounded up the stairs, ignoring the soft _tsk_ from behind. The door at the top was, in fact, locked, and he fumbled swiftly with his key, forcing his way in. "John?"

The flat was silent. Sherlock glanced around, stepped in, and shut the door softly behind himself. After a slight hesitation, he reached blindly behind himself and turned the lock. Interruptions wouldn't do. They were retiring for the night; they'd had enough.

He headed toward the lounge and paused, glancing into the kitchen. He heard the toilet flush and released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. John hadn't gone to bed, then. He removed his coat and tossed it at his chair, then headed into the kitchen to start the kettle.

After a moment John emerged, giving Sherlock a casually assessing glance as he crossed the kitchen, not making much effort to conceal his limp. He may not have noticed it yet, in fact. "You're making tea?" 

"Mmm hmm." It hadn't escaped Sherlock that John looked a bit pale and clammy.

John nodded once, his face blank, and went to settle into his chair. Sherlock overheard the slight grunt of discomfort his flatmate made as he sat, as though he was already an old man. Perhaps John thought himself that, particularly on a day such as this.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and swallowed. After a moment's indulgence he moved to take their favorite mugs from the cupboard. John had washed them just that morning. It felt like morning had occurred a million years ago. They'd had a full English breakfast--or rather, that was what John had prepared them. Sherlock had eaten more than usual, but only flit back to the table every so often to snatch a page of the paper or to pause in the act of pacing or to see the expression on John's face close up when he made a particularly brilliant observation about their current case. Having a bite of egg or toast every time he did happen to pass his plate was incidental.

Now, darkness. Silence. Failure.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at his flatmate. John's back was mostly to him, but he could see that the other man was still, not doing anything in particular. He was merely sitting deep in thought, his fist curled against his cheek.

When the tea was ready, Sherlock carried their mugs into the lounge and set his own down next to his chair before going to hand John his own. He merely hovered, watching, as John carefully took it and then simply stared into the steaming liquid. John's brow furrowed. "Chamomile?"

"Mm."

John continued to regard his drink. "Since when do you make chamomile tea?"

"I do know something about herbs, John. Don't be dull," Sherlock said dismissively.

John's look of confusion didn't clear. He was no doubt stuck in his perception of Sherlock as someone incapable of intuiting the needs of a friend. The fact was that John, up until Sherlock's abrupt entry into the flat, had been struggling not to vomit. And failing. He was now slightly green at the gills and, having tried to suppress the urge to be sick since the moment he fled the crime scene, he would have a lot of acid reflux. Neither ginger nor peppermint would do. Chamomile was the thing. John didn't know this, perhaps; he just assumed Sherlock was "doing something clever." As per usual.

They sat for a long while in this close proximity, neither speaking. Sherlock was almost startled when John suddenly let out a long, shaky breath. "Just a kid," he said, and took a hasty gulp of his tea.

"Perhaps we need a stronger beverage," Sherlock granted, but neither moved any further. He kept his eyes averted as he murmured, "I'm sorry, John."

He heard John's nails tapping the side of his mug, could almost envision the way he was no doubt pursing his lips. "Why?"

"I was ill-prepared. This might all have been avoided."

In his peripheral vision he saw John press one fist to his mouth and slowly set his mug aside. There were several moments of quiet. "No."

He hesitantly looked up. 

Whatever John saw on his face made him respond a bit more firmly. "No. No, Sherlock. Not your fault."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "It was a hell of a time to let the suspect get ahead of us."

John half-laughed, a little snort of disbelief puffing through his nose, and somehow the sound caught at the back of his throat. His eyes weren't entirely dry. He looked away quickly.

Sherlock said nothing about this. He knew John didn't blame him. He subtly chewed the inside of his bottom lip, acknowledging that he felt a strong urge to go to his friend. And what? "Hug it out"? Preposterous. But still. 

John took a drink from his mug. Set it aside. Hung his head over his lap and sighed almost silently. He stayed this way for perhaps twenty seconds or so, then abruptly shoved himself up from his chair and briefly touched the table his mug was resting on to steady himself as he turned toward the door.

"John?" Sherlock was slightly alarmed. "Where are you going?"

"I need a walk."

Sherlock stood uncertainly and trailed behind him. "I...do you want company?"  
John grabbed his coat from beside the door and began to shrug jerkily into it. "I'm alright."

Before Sherlock even knew what he was doing, his hand settled on John's shoulder. He pulled his friend nearer and settled his arms around him in an approximation of an awkward hug. He knew he wasn't doing this quite right, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. 

John, taken by surprise, held still a moment as though thinking over what to do with his arms. When he finally raised them, however, it was to push Sherlock away unceremoniously. "Just...let me be."

Sherlock stepped back, blinking, and watched as John fumbled briefly with the lock before exiting, pulling the door shut roughly behind him.

He crossed the lounge and went to the window to watch John disappear across the street and strike off to the right, which was out of the way to Regent's Park. He was headed to the liquor store first, then, having decided it was time for that stronger drink. He'd get something small and probably finish it off before he came back to the flat. Sherlock briefly entertained the notion of following him, then decided he had better not.

***

John wandered through the park for a solid ten minutes before he finally settled on a bench to focus on his drink. He sat heavily and unscrewed the cap again, sighing, the brown paper bag crinkling around his unsteady left hand. (It would be best he wasn't caught drinking here, though he was a bit past caring. It also wouldn't be the first time Lestrade had seen him pissed and on the wrong side of the law. A certain stag party came most notably to mind.)

It was dark out and the light from the electric standing lamps seemed cold. John stared into one as he replayed the day in his head, letting his peripheral vision fade out. 

It really wasn't Sherlock's fault. John wasn't angry at him; he just...he couldn't stand there and let Sherlock hug him. That was too much. Once upon a time, that Sherlock might even try to hug him would have thrown him for a loop, but these days John did a lot less feeling and a lot more shrugging off.

He put the bottle to his lips and tipped his head back. Instead of seeing the stars overhead, there was a great big glowing white rectangle with ragged edges. After image. It was strangely satisfying.

John swallowed quite a mouthful and sighed again to himself. What am I doing?

That was always the question these days. He was pretty sure the answer was "trying not to think," which would be quite a feat to accomplish while one was living with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was one of the few things he _could_ stand thinking about, however. Current Sherlock, anyway. Not...recent-past-Sherlock. Reichenbach Sherlock. Sherlock bloody on the bloody pavement Sherlock. But alive and well and warm before him, that was all right. More than all right. It was good. An anchor. A port in the storm.

Frankly, John wasn't sure how he kept all this darkness going, this fugue, this abstract concept that was once his life. First, Sherlock had died. For two long years he'd been dead, and John had slowly died as well, one bit of his familiar self at a time disappearing away from him until he'd thought perhaps his best bet was to focus on everything except himself. To disregard who he thought he was. He'd straddled a strange line of light and dark for the longest time, off-balance, surrounded by murky images of regret, vague ideas, things he might do or say if Sherlock was still with him. He was woken by dreams. Disturbed by unconscious images of dark curls, long limbs. Pale lips huffing heated breath against his shoulder, dampening the curve of his neck.

But no one had to know that, not even Ella. That was private. Strictly. It probably didn't even mean what it seemed to on the surface; dreams very rarely held up to what they said on the tin.

And then there was the rest: Mary shooting Sherlock. _Shooting him._ As if she hadn't _just_ watched John struggle through the two worst years of his entire life because of that man's death. As if she hadn't been there for almost every single moment of it, witness to his deepest feelings, feelings he would have kept from anyone else but had thought he was safe enough sharing with her. And then she had the blatant sodding _nerve_ to claim she loved him! No, it was too much. He'd tried to make peace with it all, but in the end, baby or no, he'd filed for divorce. 

Then--no baby.

John's mind tried to curl up defensively, to not go there, but it was too late; dark suggestions of memory slipped through the cracks in his weakened armor. His little girl--she had not lived more than an hour. Heart defect, as it turned out. That, and a pair of rather weak lungs, had made her life unsustainable. 

John's breath hitched and he bit down hard on the curled side of his index finger, trying to stave off a breakdown. He made himself draw several deep breaths, then drank deeply from his bottle once again. When he lowered it again he could feel by the way it sloshed that there wasn't much left.

Mary had disappeared after the baby. Had said that it was time for her to move on--to forget all of this. That clearly he needed that, and she certainly did too. Not a moment too soon. She'd seemed as though she was trying to give off the image of being self-sacrificing, for his sake. Mary was rarely so transparent, but for a moment he saw her clearly, and he was appalled at her ego to say the very least. Even though it was no longer a surprise. 

Maybe she had the luxury of forgetting. John did not. And he resented the hell out of her for her seeming freedom. The cold, heartless....

He bit off the end of that train of thought with a shake of his head. _No, Watson. Let that much go. You'll drive yourself crazy before you ever make it back to the flat._

He needed some time to think before he went back there. Some time to get himself together. If there was one thing Sherlock didn't need to see it was John blubbering like a baby. He didn't need to overhear it, either. He might misunderstand and feel guilty. But it wasn't his fault. No, he'd been as brilliant as ever.

***

_"A black lab called Harvey, apparently," John said, frowning at the hastily scrawled note that had come in the mail. Obviously written by a distraught child. "Belongs to a young boy named David Carr."_

_"Unusual name for a dog," Sherlock murmured, his brow knitting, fingertips steepled together just beneath his lips. He'd been musing aloud about his latest case when he'd finally noticed John was distracted and asked him what the letter in his hand was about. A missing dog, it seemed. "Anyway, we can't afford to be sidetracked, John," he scolded without much conviction. He'd seen the way John turned to jelly these days around any mention of children. Vulnerable children, especially. He'd worked an obscene number of extra hours at the clinic recently in order to help out with all the snotty noses associated with flu season._

_"You don't need me," John said nonchalantly, still staring at the letter, which had taken no doubt all of five seconds to read._

_Sherlock saw where this was headed, and sighed weightily. "How long?"_

_"Three hours? Tops? Let me make some calls, have a look around."_

_"Oh, fine." Sherlock waved him away dismissively. He was churlish about anything that took John away from him during a case, and what they had been working on was substantially more complex than a missing lab; Sherlock had been taunted over the last two days by a mysterious man who had sent him five coded messages claiming he had something very important in his possession; something stolen and worth a great deal of money to the right man. The one treasure every king desired but which many had failed to secure, the stranger claimed. Something many common men possessed. It was an odd message, and Sherlock had been after the answer to the riddle like a word he couldn't remember--it was nagging at him, it was on the tip of his tongue_ constantly. _He'd been muttering to himself and fretting for a cigarette since it all began._

_It wasn't until after John had left--and been gone for approximately twenty minutes--that it all came crashing together for Sherlock._

__Black lab. Harvey. David Carr. The one treasure a king can fail to secure._ _

_These weren't two separate cases--they were the same thing. Sherlock frantically scrambled to his feet and gave the note John had left behind a cursory glance. "Stupid, stupid,_ STUPID!" _he berated himself, dropping the note and clutching at his hair in desperation. He snatched up his Belstaff and went flying out the door to find John._

_But it was too late probably even then._

__

\------

_John had only tried two local shelters when he was anonymously texted, apparently from a disposable mobile. Someone had sent him an address. No context, just an address. It was strange enough that he forwarded the text on to Sherlock--_

__

"What do you make of this?" __

_\--before he hailed a cab and gave the address to the driver, who simply sat where he was, giving John a funny look._

_"Well?" John pressed impatiently._

_"That's an abandoned looney-bin, mate. What'd ya need to go there for?"_

_John frowned and put on his Captain Watson voice. "Never mind that. Just bring me."_

_As soon as the cab lurched forward, the driver looking affronted, John plucked his mobile from his pocket again and shot Sherlock another text. He hadn't yet replied to the first._

__Derelict psychiatric facility. __

__

\------

_Once John had paid his driver, the guy couldn't seem to disappear fast enough. John wasn't sure if he was frightened, or just pissed off for having been told to mind his business. No matter._

__

_It was not a small building. Three stories tall and quite long, peeling and white, almost every pane of glass cracked or broken. Lots of wild bramble and cat's ear growing up around it. Broken concrete, shattered bottles, litter. Cigarette butts everywhere. John could easily imagine that teenagers liked to hang out around this building on dares._

_Something about the place made the hair on his arms and the back of his neck prickle. It was a feeling like electrically charged air before a lightning strike. His old soldier instinct was kicking in: that almost sixth-sense awareness that although everything looked quiet, something was quite wrong. John had learned to trust this feeling; it had never mislead him yet. The body's own natural warning system. He knew not everyone had it--had seen men die for just that reason--but he did for some reason, and he never ignored it. He felt for his Sig tucked into his belt under his jacket. It was there, hard, cold, and reassuring. He knew it would be, but touching it felt a bit like stroking a lucky rabbit's foot, and John always had been superstitious. He'd never tell Sherlock that. He'd probably guessed as much anyway._

_"Superstition is just a transient, charmingly quirky form of OCD. More socially acceptable than mental illness, though not necessary a great indicator of a high IQ," he'd once heard Sherlock declare disdainfully._

_Even now, heading into the broken-down building with a sense of danger breathing hot down the back of his neck, John couldn't help but smirk._

__

\------

_This was the way Sherlock would parse it out later for John:_

__

_"Son of Sam, aka David Berkowitz. He was an American serial killer--ah. I see you know who he was. Get to the point, right, yes. What many people don't know is where he got his name. It came from his next door neighbor Sam Carr. Sam had a black lab named Harvey who Berkowitz was supposedly convinced spoke to him and told him to kill. Shortly after you left 221B it clicked for me; the missing child, Kevin Wright. His father, Sam, has been all over the news begging for his son's return. This was therefore connected to our other case; the answer to the riddle is that every king wants a son. An heir. Our suspect--Warren Bergen, incidentally--perceives himself as royalty. He wanted what he was 'due.' I doubt it had much to do with the child himself, but rather that the child was the means to an end. Maybe even representative of something nebulous--I doubt our criminal knows what he wanted. He's quite insane and holds a high regard for himself. Narcissistic, completely entitled. Unfortunate for the boy...." Here Sherlock trailed off, his expression fading from confident to uncertain, then afflicted. He blinked rapidly, looking away from John's pale face, and cleared his throat. "Kevin."_

_Kevin had fallen from a rotten ceiling beam he'd climbed up onto while trying to escape his captor. A brave maneuver...but he hadn't survived the fall._

_John had been right there, within shouting distance. He'd seen it all._

_In the aftermath, even their suspect had frozen, staring at the body of the nine-year-old not with shock, but with surprise. When John regained his composure, which happened lightning-quick (war mentality), he tackled the target to the ground and yanked his hands behind him so far up his back that the despicable man was begging for handcuffs by the time Lestrade showed up with Sherlock. At which time Greg was only too happy to oblige._

_Sherlock had related the details of the case to John just before the ambulance arrived, offering clarity and the soft anchor of a familiar voice._

_And the rest, now, was history. Just another dark link in the somber chain of recent events tying up John's mind, stealing his breath, his peace, his light._

***

They hadn't gotten together quickly enough, hadn't acted quickly enough, and the kid had died.

John didn't feel it was his fault. He almost wished he could blame himself. No. Instead what he felt was inconsequential, a moot point. He had failed every which way he was capable of failing.

He hadn't been able to stay in Afghanistan, invalided out instead.

He hadn't saved Sherlock from Moriarty.

He hadn't found a meaningful relationship with a woman who loved him.

He hadn't saved his baby.

He hadn't saved this child tonight.

John raised his bottle one last time, fingers numb, and finished his drink. Then he sat, hanging his head, until it grew too cold on the bench for him to stay any longer without causing himself harm.

***

It was so strange, John thought, suddenly struck still with awe outside 221B, to see a light on upstairs. To know Sherlock was there. Perhaps waiting for him to come home.

He stood there for several minutes, drunkenly admiring the warm light Sherlock's lamp cast through the window. He could just make out the frame of the music stand behind the curtain. 

John practiced the exercise Ella had once given him, a grounding exercise. He focused on the pavement under his feet, the way his clothing felt on his body, the way his fists felt when he clenched them, on the cold of the air against his cheeks. He breathed in and out for a while through his mouth, watching the cloud of respiration bloom in front of him and fade away like cigarette smoke, but creamier.

He didn't see any movement in the flat, no sign of Sherlock. But he was there. John felt that, just the way he could sense danger when it was present. One might argue the two were one and the same, but no. Sherlock was lighter, a comfortable sensation. Like slipping into a warm bath.

Okay. All right, then. Thoughts like that might be a bit Not Good coming from this side of the blood alcohol content scale.

John suddenly, fervently wished he _was_ in fact a smoker so that he could linger outside longer, with a purpose. He wasn't sure why he was hesitating to go up, especially as 221B was suddenly the only place he wanted to be in all the world.

He realized he was flexing his left hand open and shut over and over again, and forced himself to stop; to go up the steps and open the door. That good old door with its crooked knocker. Why did they have that thing, anyway? No one had ever used it, at least not during John's time there.

When John entered the flat it was to the sight of, yes, Sherlock. Still awake, of course--it would have been much more odd to find him sleeping. He was sitting in his chair with a glass of scotch, which was the only surprising thing. Sherlock watched him notice. "I figured there was no point in you drinking alone," he said ironically. "Care to join me at this point?"

John said nothing, just turned into the kitchen to dispose of the brown bag he was still clutching, empty bottle inside. He found the scotch on the counter with a clean glass already laid out next to it, and some unmelted ice as well. Was he really so predictable that Sherlock knew precisely when to take the ice out of the freezer?

Oh well. Maybe this was one of the _good_ things about Sherlock. Perhaps this was his way of showing familiarity, or even fondness. John sometimes mused that his best friend was like a cat; it was hard to tell when genuine affection was being shown. You only assumed that if you weren't being bitten, then everything was okay and you should try to continue doing things just the way you had been.

John fixed his drink and went to his chair. He sat with his drink, appreciating the fire Sherlock had started in the fireplace at some earlier point during his absence. He sat swirling his ice around, listening to it scrape the bottom of his glass, then forged ahead as if they'd been in the middle of a conversation all along. "Why d'you suppose Bergen came at us from both sides like that? Made it appear to be two separate cases?"

Sherlock did not seem surprised at the question, or at its abrupt nature. Sherlock was the king of non-sequitors. He drew a deep and somehow speculative breath. "I don't know. But he enjoyed toying with me. Pitifully, at that. I suppose, having had time to think about it, that you were his end game. If he'd had you, he'd have had leverage over me. It was a unique take, I'll give him that much, but his failure was that he wasn't nearly clever enough to pull it off. He wouldn't even have known what to do with you once he had you."

Their eyes finally met, and John nodded. Made sense.

Sherlock was still, legs crossed, eyes fixed on John. The only thing that moved was the tip of one finger as he tapped it on the rim of his glass. Then he pursed his lips briefly and forged ahead. His question sounded strained, as though he was a robot who was learning human customs with some difficulty. "Are you all right?"

John regarded him seriously, then broke suddenly, laughing.

Sherlock's brow rose with surprise. "What?"

John coughed, trying to reign it in. "I'm sorry. Compassion isn't your forte."

Sherlock smirked. "You'll be forced to admit--I tried."

"Yes, you did. I witnessed it. Just now. It was...what did you say? Pitiful?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

The mirth slowly slid off John's face. They sat, sipping their drinks.

"When did it all go wrong?"

Sherlock frowned, his eyes giving their own speech, making it clear that he'd known this was coming. 

"When was the moment, Sherlock? You're smart. Tell me. The very moment...when it all started to go so very wrong." John was reduced to whispering now.

"I think," Sherlock said quietly, "it was outside Kitty Riley's apartment."

"...Beg pardon?"

"When it went wrong. I think it was that night. Outside her apartment. After we saw Moriarty masquerading as Richard Brook. That's when I realized what I needed to do. I'd had a plan before that, of course, a nebulous one, but that's when I knew."

John pressed one hand over his mouth and rubbed his face, simply regarding Sherlock with a hint of desperation behind his eyes. Eventually he lowered his hand and made a vague sweeping motion. "And the rest of it? My wife, my d--" he choked suddenly on the word before he could even get it out, and clenched his eyes shut tightly, embarrassed. His fingers clutched at the armrests until his knuckles whitened.

John heard the sound of fabric rustling, floorboards creaking with shifting weight, then the slide of cloth on carpeting. But he wasn't certain until he felt the hand on his knee. "John?" Tentative, pleading.

He opened his watery eyes a crack and sniffled, surprisingly loudly. Sherlock was kneeling before him, staring up at him searchingly with fear and vulnerability written all over his face, a sight so unexpected that John felt his heart thud sickly against his ribcage in some approximation of adrenaline.

"Why?" Sherlock murmured, reaching out to lay his hands on his friend's shoulders and squeeze softly. "Why won't you let me help you?"

John felt something in him give like a landslide. It was a difficult feeling, and wasn't without resistance as long-standing reservations were forced to shift under the necessity of gravity. In the end he pushed his doubt and discomfort away in an act of inner defiance. He wasn't sure what Sherlock read in his face; all he knew was that one moment Sherlock's thumbs were pressing gently into his shoulders and the next his head was tucked awkwardly into the dim curve of his friend's neck. Sherlock's hands found their way onto his back, soothing in a way that felt instinctual rather than stilted. John wondered why he was making shushing noises, then realized that--humiliatingly enough--he was literally using Sherlock as a shoulder to cry on. He wanted to pull back as soon as he realized, but Sherlock seemed to sense this and refused to let go. He locked his arms where they were around John and fought him silently, a brief struggle which he won. Then he said something which truly broke him.

"I never got to tell you that I'm sorry about your child, John."

John's chest tightened. He couldn't breathe. He fisted his hands in the front of Sherlock's shirt, giving his hands something to do, something senseless since they seemed to have no certain course of action once they were there other than clutching. He sobbed then, truly sobbed as if it was finally real, because hearing Sherlock say it it _was_ real, and he hated himself for crying, _he hated it_. 

"It's necessary," Sherlock whispered back, and John was suddenly unsure if he'd expressed his thought out loud or if Sherlock was just doing his knowing-him-so-damn-well thing again.

He curled inward more, tucking his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder and feeling his tears dampen the other man's shirt. 

They stayed this way an untold length of time. Eventually John became aware of Sherlock's large hand cradling the back of his head, stroking his hair slowly and softly. He felt his breathing finally ease up, his chest loosen a little. He was bone-tired. He realized, also (and supposed he might be amused about it later) that Sherlock was rocking him slightly, that gesture of comfort so innate, approximating the rocking a baby might feel in the womb as its mother walked: that swing, the beating heart in the background. The only heart John could hear, however, was his own; a faint rushing in his ears. It was his posture. He'd been bent like this too awkwardly for too long. 

John snuffled again, awkwardly. "Sorry," he said nasally.

"Nonsense."

John sat back, slowly unfurling his hands from Sherlock's shirt front, feeling the blood flow back into his fingers as he flexed them. He didn't look his friend directly in the eyes.

Sherlock released him, but his hands hovered somewhere in his proximity as though they might land somewhere again at any moment. As though they were bracing him in space, keeping him from flying off the edge of the world. "Could I get you some tea?"

"That would be fantastic."

Sherlock stood gracefully and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Wow," John called. "Tea twice in one day. I should break down in tears more often."

Sherlock snorted laughter, and John smiled. He turned to watch Sherlock in the kitchen as he fussed over the kettle. He wiped his cheek with one hand, distractedly, and for once let the unambiguous love he felt for the strange man he lived with knock him over like a soft, giant, invisible fist.


End file.
